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Talking to myself

I snagged Congresswoman Lois Capps after her economic press conference thingy about a week ago. Or at least I’d like to think I did. And here’s how our conversation went, or I would’ve liked it to have gone.

“Excuse me, Congresswoman Capps.” You have to be polite or her press secretary Emily Kryder will make Christmas ornaments out of your dangly parts.

“So I was listening to your speech and, I gotta say, those fat banker vultures there on Wall Street sure do blow big time.”

“I know,” she said and shrugged her shoulders. “They’re so greedy. They keep asking for all this money. But what are you gonna do?”

“Totally. They’re terrible. They’re like über-non-Main Street. Someone should crack down on them.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she sighed. “Who dropped the ball on that one?”

“Well—you could help out. After you give them all that money, just make them do things like, I dunno, help the rest of us out. Or you could just help us out right now. Things are kind of hairy. I mean, Morro Bay dredging and new levees can’t solve all our job problems.”

Capps winced. “Ooh. We’re trying. It’s really hard, though. We’ll have something ready in a few months—maybe. But those guys sure do suck.”

“Yeah, they do. May I have some bread please?”

Then she walked away, and I got this throbbing pain. Is it a migraine? It feels like a migraine, like my skull’s in a vice Casino-style. I drink--—heavily

Then I read this press release or article or maybe it was just a bunch of monkeys banging on typewriters. Somehow one of the furry little buggers poked out the words “climate change,” “hoax,” and “Matt Kokkonen.”

There’s that throbbing again.

Kokkonen, who’s running for Assembly District 33, argues that this climate-change business has been blown way out of proportion. Who’da thunk it? He says, scientists put too many temperature gauges in places that are unnaturally hot. So when they review the data it comes out—you guessed it—too hot (insert sexy sizzling sound here).

Want examples? Sure! Take the station in Paso Robles: It’s baking on a concrete pad next to parked cars and a major street. Even Cal Poly can’t get it right: That station is on a concrete pad next to a concrete walkway and near “heat sink” broken-down RVs. Want more examples? Um—that was it.

Wow! How scientific. (To be fair,Matt quotes an actual sciencey dude who says nearly all the sensors are placed wrong.)

If this is true—and let’s assume it is—then it seems all these airhead conspiracist puke-for-brains scientists are merely looking at the readings and thinking, “Wuh? That’s hotter than it should be.” And bam! Another polar bear mysteriously bites the dust.

And if you’re in the hoax camp, answer me this: What does anyone have to gain by saying global warming is real? I’m waiting. … No? OK, then. I guess the conversation would go like this:

“OK. We tell everyone the planet’s getting hotter because of all this pollution. And if we don’t do something soon the whole place is gonna get FUBAR.”

“What’s in it for us?”

“Just a few laughs. Maybe some khaki shorts.“We’d need a bunch of sell-out scientists to back it up.”

“You leave that to me, pumpkin.”

Color me classy

I recently learned about an event called Classy Thursdays, put on by a group of Cal Poly students who fancy themselves classy because of their weekly event at Native Lounge where they dress nicely, act politely, and delicately sip martinis over conversation of philanthropy and high culture.

“Cuz Friday ain’t got shit on Thursday,” their website reads. OK. So they’re working on the culture part—they admit they haven’t gotten around to the philanthropy part, either—and for now they’re focused mainly on the drinking and fancy attire.

“The event represents a revival of classy dress in young people,” the event organizer wrote in a press release. (I wonder, is that because trashy ain’t got shit on classy?) “And can even be said to represent a return to more gentlemanly/ladylike conduct,” he goes on.

Then I went back to their web site: “Roll in style with the hottest crew in San Luis Obispo.” Also: They invite partiers to join them for “a night you’ll never remember, with people you’ll never forget.”

Some photos I saw of Thursdays past do indeed reveal better threads than jeans and ironic T-shirts, but there’s style, and then there’s substance. And it didn’t look like they were discussing anything classy people would consider classy, and don’t look at me to discover what that is, because I’m wearing a lumpy sweater, sweatpants, and am still nursing the aforementioned drink. Which is why I hope another of their slogans isn’t entirely true: “Classy Thursdays. Cuz you’ll never look better than you do right now.”

Somebody kill me.

Classy should be, you know, classy in a classy way, not classy in the way Paris Hilton keeping her hoo-ha unexposed for more than 10 minutes is classy. So here’s my pitch: Somebody help them add function to the form. But I’d do it before they get too many vodka shots in so they’ll at least remember a few minutes of conversation about charity.

The shredder fancies a sallow glass of scotch. Send complaints to shredder@newtimesslo.com.